


Picnicking with Princesses

by RecessiveJean



Category: Enchanted Forest Chronicles - Patricia Wrede
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Goats, Magic, Magic-Users, Married Couple, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecessiveJean/pseuds/RecessiveJean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The statutory holiday for goatherds was an oversight. The picnic was premeditated, though Cimorene and Mendanbar may come to regret it.</p><p>The princess was unexpected, uninvited, and is certainly free to leave at any time, but of course she has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picnicking with Princesses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storm_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_queen/gifts).



> Many thanks and all love to [intrikate88](http://archiveofourown.org/users/intrikate88/) for the emergency beta.

If you visit the King or Queen of the Enchanted Forest on a Tuesday, you will need to watch out for the goats. They’re everywhere.

It wasn’t always like that. There used to be only the usual number of goats, in moderate and properly-spaced concentration. But ever since the King of the Enchanted Forest, still groggy from the after-effects of a sleeping curse, misread a petition and signed on the wrong dotted line, goatherds were awarded mandatory Tuesdays off.

Their goats had to go somewhere.

“Somewhere” proved to be the castle of the King and Queen of the Enchanted Forest, where the goats were left for the day, ungoverned and wont to stray. This encouraged the Royal Family to find any reason not to be at home on Tuesdays, which was why, one Monday evening, the Queen of the Enchanted Forest suggested a picnic.

King Mendanbar did not immediately love the idea.

“Ants,” he said, “are worse than goats.”

His wife was unconvinced. “Are they? I don’t think it was ants that ate your second-best ermine robe off the line.”

“That was no great loss,” said Mendanbar. “The robe itched.” But Cimorene could see him wavering, so she went ahead and ordered a hamper to be ready bright and early Tuesday morning.

She could not do the same for their son, who had a young man’s tendency to sleep until the sun rose to midday heights. Since his parents were not unreasonable, as parents go, they allowed Daystar to sleep in on days when he had no other pressing appointments. Tuesday never involved pressing appointments, as it was difficult to schedule around that many goats.

So the King and Queen of the Enchanted Forest rose early Tuesday morning, kissed their sleeping son, collected their picnic hamper from the kitchen—where goats were milling about, nibbling on napkins, and making the cook say terrible things—and fled the castle before the infestation got worse.

Once outside the castle gates, Mendanbar accessed the invisible lines of power that crossed every part of the Enchanted Forest, using them to check each path that branched off the main road. After a moment’s hesitation, he indicated one path as less likely to lead to trouble.  Cimorene, who knew that by “trouble” her husband meant anything from warring fairies and wizards to opportunistic princesses and questing knights, fell in step beside him.

They did not have to walk far before they found a small, shaded glen encircled by tall, ancient trees. The ground was thickly carpeted with grass and moss, and a stream ran along the edge of the clearing, though Mendanbar and Cimorene were not so foolish as to try drinking from it. As Mendanbar’s old auntie used to say, “that’s how princes get turned into frogs.”

Mendanbar checked the perimeter for any spells set to trap those who entered the glen, but found nothing to give alarm.

“Looks safe enough,” he decided, so Cimorene spread the blanket they had brought, Mendanbar set out the food, and together they settled in to enjoy their breakfast.

At first they focused chiefly on eating—the castle cook had done some wonderful things in the way of fresh fruit, cheese and flaky pastry—but gradually, as their stomachs filled and the glen made comforting chirping, rustling noises all around them, they started to talk.

“Something has got to be done about Tuesdays,” said Cimorene.

“Has it, really?” asked Mendanbar. Cimorene dropped her chin and stared at him in a way that was unsettlingly like his old auntie.

“I’m not saying I mind the occasional picnic, but the goats are getting ridiculous. You’ve got to look into that petition. I’m sure we could find a good lawyer to work out a loophole. We can’t go on like this.”

“Maybe,” said Mendanbar, “but I don’t know if it’s worth angering the goatherds.”

“Anything is better than spending every Tuesday driven from our home by goats.”

Mendanbar thought there were probably lots of things that were worse than goats—he had spent sixteen years under a sleeping curse, after all—and was about to suggest a few, when the princess suddenly appeared.

Her appearance was _so_ sudden that at first Mendanbar thought she was a fairy godmother who’d got the wrong royal couple. She poofed into the glen in a cloud of scented blue smoke, which was a hallmark of the arrival of fairy godmothers, so it was a logical conclusion to make.

On the other hand, she was dazzlingly beautiful, wore no wings, and looked only a year or two older than Daystar, so there was also some argument against her being a fairy. Still, Mendanbar was careful to rise and make a handsome bow. He and Cimorene hadn’t discussed having more children, but there was no sense in borrowing trouble. Angering fairies when there was still the possibility of a christening in your future was just asking for a curse.

“Good morning,” he said. “Er—Madam.”

The beautiful girl with the golden hair and the wide blue eyes favoured him with a sweet smile. Mendanbar, at the sight of it, rapidly reassessed the likelihood of her profession. This was _not_ a fairy godmother. In Mendanbar’s experience only sharks, wizards and unwed princesses smiled like that.

“Good morrow, Sir,” she said, in a voice as sweet as sounding bells and clear as tumbling mountain streams. “Allow me to explain the strange manner of my appearance in this . . .” she took a brief, assessing look around, “. . . lonesome glen.”

Mendanbar tried to find a diplomatic smile.

“If your explanation is brief,” he said, “we would consent to hear it. Though if you’re in trouble or need help of some kind, I hope you’ll get that part out in the open first. We were trying to have a picnic.”

He couldn’t help but notice that Cimorene, far from joining in the discussion, was content to stay seated and snack on the remnants of their breakfast. She seemed more amused by the spectacle than alarmed, which was, Mendanbar thought bitterly, so very like a former princess, not to be frightened of her own kind.

If Cimorene had a little more proper feeling she’d be in better sympathy with him, and see this princess as a dangerous nuisance rather than a midmorning amusement.

“Alas,” said the princess, “I am beset with troubles that would try the strength and spirit of even the most valiant knight. They are too numerous to name in any modest span of time.”

“What a shame,” said Mendanbar. “I am sorry to hear that. Maybe if you keep walking, you’ll find someone who has more—”

“Indeed,” the princess continued, as if he had not spoken, “I find I am faint with hunger and overcome by fatigue. I feel . . . as if . . .” she teetered left, and swayed right. Mendanbar, who did not want her to fall face first into the meringues, gave a quick, impatient tug on a few invisible cords. The princess stopped stumbling, and looked confused.

“Ah . . .” she said. “Erhem.”

“Fatigue passed?” Mendanbar asked politely. “Oh good.” And he patted the lines of magic back into place, releasing her.

A speculative expression settled on the princess’s face.

“Sir,” she said, “I beg your pardon. I have been remiss in my duties, and a poor example to my fellow students of etiquette, elocution and everyday introductions.”

Now it was Mendanbar’s turn to be nonplussed. He shot a quick, questioning glance at his wife, who confirmed, with a nod, that this was indeed a real thing.

“I failed that class,” she added cheerfully.

The princess, apparently electing not to follow any conversation in which she was not a participant, remained focused on Mendanbar.

“I am Zora, daughter of Lionel and Margaret, the rightful rulers of a small kingdom not far from this wood. My parents were recently deposed by an unnatural pretender, and so I am sent forth by my people on a most daunting quest to restore their throne and my fortunes.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mendanbar, and wondered that he could tell such a lie without bursting into flame. Fortunately, Zora seemed to take it for granted that he would be pleased to meet her, and focused on what he had _not_ said.

“And you, good sir. What is your name? Your profession? You are a man of some means, clearly . . . perhaps a prince of this land?” She looked especially hopeful as she made this guess. Mendanbar shivered. Fortunately, Zora did not notice.

“No doubt you, as I, are breaking from some arduous journey that you might take sustenance in the company of your . . .” she faltered, evidently struggling to assess Cimorene’s likely relationship to Mendanbar in a light that did not hurt her chances of making a good match. “. . . sister?”

Cimorene choked on a grape. Mendanbar blinked.

“No,” he said, not trusting himself to say anything more. The princess squinted doubtfully at Cimorene, then looked back to Mendanbar.

“Your mother, then?”

Cimorene swallowed the grape, and looked sour. Mendanbar opened his mouth, then shut it quickly.

It was true he had been under the sleeping curse for seventeen years, and in that time, had not aged at all. It was also true that Cimorene, uncursed, had aged every one of those seventeen years, and that the two of them had agreed, in privacy, they found their newfound age gap disconcerting. But it was one thing to discuss this with your wife, and quite another to have a stranger point it out to you over the remains of what had been, before her interruption, a very nice breakfast.

Suddenly, keeping his identity private took secondary importance to getting rid of Princess Zora.

“Madam, the lady is my wife and a queen of this forest. If you intend to conduct business in the area, you would be well-advised to know the faces of your hosts.”

It was almost certainly the most king-like speech Mendanbar had made since the breaking of the sleeping curse. If his steward Willin had been present to hear it, the little elf would probably have been overcome at the magnificence of the whole thing.

Unfortunately, it was the wrong thing to say to Zora.

“I thought so,” she said smugly. Then she said another word, which was not any Mendanbar had heard before, nor one he could manage to describe again. He only knew that as soon as Zora spoke it, his limbs locked up.

“Mendanbar,” said Cimorene, from the blanket beside him, “I can’t move my arms or legs.”

Mendanbar looked over at her, which was how he found he was still able to turn his head. However that was all he was able to move, and the same was true for Cimorene.

They both looked at Zora with grudging respect.

“You’re not a princess,” Mendanbar decided.

“I certainly am,” said Zora. “At least, I am by right of birth. But very little job diversity is offered to princesses, and princes aren’t exactly thick on the ground. When my parents’ throne was usurped, the few princes who wanted me just disappeared. I needed to do _something_ , so I took up magic. And then I took some of that magic into your castle kitchen—along with some goats. They made an excellent cover—and attached a spell to your food. It was dormant until I activated it.”

“You’re a witch, then?” asked Mendanbar. Zora shook her head contemptuously.

“Most witches are entirely too bound by rules of good conduct, and the censure of fellow witches if they step out of line. I wanted something with a bit more _flair._ ” And she drew from her sleeve something that might have resembled a wand, only the wood was too polished and thick. It was set at one end with a beautiful, clear jewel that fairly oozed power.

“You’re a wizard,” Cimorene said, surprised. “That’s . . . new. I didn’t know they admitted women to their society.”

“I am to marry the Head Wizard,” Zora said smugly. “I have persuaded him to establish a women’s auxiliary. I’ll be the first.”

“That’s very enterprising of you,” Cimorene admitted. She sounded admiring almost in spite of herself. “And, er, who is Head Wizard these days?”

“Antorell of the Lost Leg,” said Zora proudly.

Cimorene put her head to the side. “Was that Antorell at one time also known as Antorell, Annoying Only Son of Zemenar?”

“Yes, but after he lost his leg to a nightshade, he decided mentioning his leg lost in battle made him sound fierce. Which is why I’m here. As a wedding present I promised him I would avenge the loss of his leg, and bring him the King and Queen of the Enchanted Forest. He anticipates subjecting you to racks and boiling wax and thumbscrews and all other manner of unspeakable torture.”

“You do realise,” said Mendanbar, “that by speaking of the torture, you’ve proven it’s not actually—”

“Shh, dear,” Cimorene said. “I don’t think pedantry will help us just now.”

“Well then,” said Mendanbar, “ _you_ suggest something.”

He hadn’t meant to sound as sulky as he did. Fortunately Cimorene did not comment on his tone; rather, she looked up at Zora and said, quite distinctly, “piffleknickers.”

It wasn’t even a word. Not really. Mendanbar was quite confident of that. But as soon as Cimorene said the not-word, the fingers of his right hand thawed. He wiggled them experimentally, and found he was able to loop one thin cord of the Enchanted Forest’s magic around his pinky finger—once, then twice, and then . . . he tugged.

Zora’s staff twitched out of her hand and fell to the ground with a soft thump. Before she could bend down to retrieve it, Mendanbar tugged again, this time so sharply and viciously, the cord of magic almost snapped. Power imploded around the staff with a _crack_ and the smell of ozone curled up from its core.

Zora leaped back from her staff with a shriek. Cimorene tumbled to the side, and Mendanbar stumbled forward as he regained control of his limbs. Before Zora could recover from her shock, Mendanbar pulled a different set of threads, and the staff vanished.

“Where have you put it?” Zora demanded.

“Elsewhere,” said Mendanbar. He tossed a few loops neatly around her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides. “That will hold her,” he decided, and glanced down at his wife. “What _was_ that?”

“A spell,” said Cimorene. “Sort of.” She stood, and brushed at the moss-stains on her skirt. “When you were under the curse, and we knew Daystar was probably the only one who could break it, I wanted to help him. So Morwen, Kazul and I tried to work out some way for me to manipulate the magic of the forest enough to provide some assistance when the time came. Only the Enchanted Forest did _not_ want to allow that. Seventeen years, three different kinds of magic, and all we managed was a one-word enchantment that looked like it might possibly affect the rightful ruler of the kingdom. Which was you, not Daystar. So it was useless at the time.”

“Very handy now, though,” Mendanbar observed, wiggling his fingers thoughtfully.

“Indeed.”

“What about _me_?” demanded Zora. She struggled ineffectually against the cords of magic that bound her. “What are you going to do with me?”

Mendanbar hadn’t actually thought that far ahead, and he resented Zora’s compelling him to acknowledge that. But before he could admit he didn’t know, Cimorene made the decision for him.

“I think I’ll claim a forfeit.”

“A forfeit? Nonsense! It’s only innately magic creatures you have slain who are bound to offer forfeits,” said Zora. “Any princess knows that.”

“Yes, well, any _Queen_ knows that what you learn in your princess lessons isn’t as useful as they’d have you believe. And I for one don’t believe the Society of Wizards Women’s Auxiliary has been established long enough for you to have closed the rule book. Though I suppose if you persist in making difficulties, Mendanbar can bring you along to the castle and we can make this all much more formal than it has to be. I know an elf who’s just itching for the opportunity to draw up a contract. A _long_ one.”

“Fine,” said Zora. “What do you want?”

“I will accept as forfeit your solemn and binding vow that, on the day the Women’s Auxiliary of the Society of Wizards is officially incorporated, the goat herding duties of all goatherds within the Enchanted Forest shall fall to the Society of Wizards every Tuesday, that the goatherds may properly enjoy their holiday. And under no circumstances are the goats to be harmed, mistreated or transformed in any way.”

“You want us to look after _goats_?” Zora shrieked.

“Yes, starting with the ones you left in our kitchen. We’ll send them to you as soon as we get home.”

“I won’t do it,” said Zora.

“Don’t be foolish,” said Cimorene. “It’s goats, once a week. You don’t even have a kingdom to run or anything like that. You can manage goats. Goodness, be glad I’m not my son—I might have sent you away with a nightshade of your very own. Instead, I propose goats. Do you accept?”

Mendanbar thought Zora might have refused, except for the mention of a nightshade. She set her jaw and nodded sulkily.

“Very well,” she said, and the Enchanted Forest hummed, recording the bargain that had been struck, binding all parties to it. Then Mendanbar pulled one thread and cast off another, and Zora simply, neatly, disappeared.

“Where’s she gone?” Cimorene wanted to know.

“Somewhere near the Caves of Fire and Night. I expect she’ll be able to find her way home from there. If she survives, I guess we’ll have to see about getting the goats to her somehow.”

“Leave that to me,” said Cimorene. “Morwen’s got at least three cats that are very good with livestock. If we ask them especially nicely and offer a few questionable favours, they may agree to chaperone the herd in transit.”

“That would be very tidy,” said Mendanbar, feeling unaccountably relieved at the prospect of being able to foist the goats off on a witch’s cats. It seemed his day was looking up.

“Mmm,” said Cimorene. She considered the spot where Zora had stood. “Speaking of tidy, that was a very neat bit of transportation. I don’t remember your magic being so clean. You’ve acquired some subtlety while you were asleep.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I like it.”

Yes, thought Mendanbar. _Definitely_ looking up.

They didn’t make it back to the castle until well after dinner time.

**Author's Note:**

> I’d wanted to wrap this treat before reveals, but I hope “better late than never” might apply here. Your prompts were so enticing, I just couldn’t pass them by!


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